


Music, The Food of Love

by EmeraldEyes8917



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Episode: s02e01 A Scandal in Belgravia, F/M, Gen, Missing Scene, Sherlock's Violin, Surveillance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-31
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-11 02:53:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,732
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28108128
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EmeraldEyes8917/pseuds/EmeraldEyes8917
Summary: During a routine surveillance update, Anthea happens upon her boss's younger brother playing the violin at the window of 221B Baker Street.Even the best of professionals are compelled to listen to beautiful music.Takes place during the middle of Scandal in Belgravia, where Sherlock is attempting to unlock Miss Adler's phone and presumes her to be dead, precluding John Watson's encounter with a mysterious lady and a clandestine meeting with The Woman herself.
Relationships: Anthea & Sherlock Holmes
Kudos: 3





	Music, The Food of Love

_If music be the food of love, play on_  
_Give me excess of it; that surfeiting,_  
_The appetite may sicken, and so die.”_  
  
  
― William Shakespeare, "Twelfth Night"  
  
  
Upgrading a surveillance status is no mean feat. But it was at the request of Mycroft Holmes that she carried out this task, and ensured that the two men, Sherlock Holmes, and Doctor Watson, were placed on surveillance status Grade Three, active.  
  
This was over a year ago.  
  
Life at Baker Street had been tumultuous to say the least. Clients, blow-ups, the odd visit from Mr Holmes. Each and every event was documented, as was the protocol with this level of surveillance. Anthea rarely took part in these procedures, though she was primarily in charge of surveillance tasks as well as being Mr Holmes' personal assistant, it was on this day she had chosen to monitor both the picture and sound coming from the flat that the consulting detective and army doctor called home.  
  
It had been several days since the body of a woman had been found matching Miss Irene Adler's description and brought to the morgue at St. Bartholomew's hospital. 

Mr Holmes had been there when Sherlock had identified the body. The confirmation came hours later, and it had sent shock waves through each department dealing with the case, and the entire matter was thought to have been closed. Crisis averted, and the dignity of the monarchy still intact.  
  
All that was left in the world of Miss Adler's that mattered was her camera-phone, containing secrets that could shake the very foundations of several prominent figures and their public lives. A colleague had remarked on the irony of so much catastrophe being caused by something so small as the hard drive of a Vertu phone.  
  
She had only smiled and typed on her BlackBerry, silently inferring, 'Oh, how little you know'.  
  
And that same wealth of knowledge was presently being held by Sherlock Holmes.  
  
Was it truly wise to leave the camera-phone in 221B? She personally didn't think so, but given the delicacy of the matter and the potential risk of scandal still strong, it was not her place to contradict orders unless strictly necessary. She did not mistrust Sherlock Holmes, but when it came to such things as following orders, he was not famous for such things. His brother had been witness to that on many occasions.  
  
Settling down to watch the live feed in a swivel chair, Anthea was grateful for the coffee she had hastily drunk before she had walked in here, for surveillance could be tedious at times. Necessary to national importance, but still tedious.  
  
Tapping several keys on the keyboard positioned on the desk below the array of screens, she brings up the Baker Street cameras on the screen directly in her eye line, turning up the volume to a tolerable level, then taking out a pen and pad to note the time-stamps should anything significant occur.  
  
Reviewing camera footage. This is what she lived for, but she couldn't complain, really.  
  
For at least an hour and a half, there was silence on the street, except for the odd conversation of a few passers-by, or a particularly loud car engine sputtering. The noises of the city always came through at differing frequencies and volumes that could be jarring at times, but she had learned not to regard every noise as suspicious. In her early days in surveillance, she would be constantly wide-eyed and alert for each and every person who walked past their cameras, or the slightest noise that was a fraction too loud. But in time, she honed her senses to see what needed to be seen, and to search for what could be hidden from the naked eye.  
  
So, she drew a few flowers and stars in the margins of the notepad, tapping the pen on the page to a rhythm.  
  
It was at that moment that she heard the violin melody playing.  
  
She looks up immediately, staring at the screen in front of her, wondering if she was hearing things. But it continues, sounding so plaintive and quiet, like a confession.  
  
After a few seconds, it stops. She strains to listen, leaning closer to the screen as if it would help. That same melody begins again, the notes rising and falling in a gentle cadence, originating from the first floor of the flat, directly from the window.  
  
Her brow furrows, trying to place the tune, but it is unlike anything she had ever heard before. Looking to the window where the playing was coming from, she notices a tall figure framed in the window, matching Sherlock Holmes' height and build.  
  
She sits back in her chair, her scalp beginning to prickle, fully prepared to look away from this. It was choice moments when her feelings about privacy returned, and the fact that such surveillance operations were conducted nearly twenty-four hours of the day without a single break apart from a catastrophic blackout occurrence. Still, it was one of the first lessons she had come to accept: Everything is significant, nothing is unimportant.  
  
She is compelled to keep watching, both out of curiosity and diligence. Sherlock's outline remains stationary, and she can make out the violin poised on his shoulder, and the movement of the bow as he draws it across the strings slowly.  
  
Transfixed, Anthea sits and takes in this rare instance of Sherlock Holmes, not as the brilliant detective or the sparring brother, but as the musician.  
  
Mr. Holmes had remarked on Sherlock's annoying scraping to force him to leave before Moriarty's great game, and also playing the national anthem following the Belgravia incident.  
  
This time, it wasn't annoying or a nuisance. It sounded.. beautiful. A noun she would hesitate to associate with the younger Holmes, given his cold logic. Yet here she was, describing his playing in such a manner.  
  
Once again, Sherlock stops. She raises her pen to note this down, her efficient nature taking over, but for some inexplicable reason, she wants this moment to be private, almost like a personal concert.  
  
He disappears from the window for a few moments, and her heart sinks. Her palms on the desk, she silently prays for him to continue, almost fervent in wanting to hear more.  
  
He returns, as does the music, and she shuts her eyes, blissfully. The playing continues on for longer, without any interruptions, and she allows her eyes to close, letting the music wash over her. 

Just to know that this side of him existed moved her unexpectedly, for she hadn't known Sherlock to be the most sensitive of souls. A sharp, clever man, but not a softhearted one. One with a real gift.  
  
It is then at that moment when she opens her eyes slowly does she see Doctor Watson leaving the flat, and when he turns to speak with a young woman in black, she is back into surveillance mode, the spell broken, noting each and every detail of the make and model of the car that escorted John away.  
  
The next few hours are taken up with tracking that same car, tracing Sherlock's movements when he left the flat, putting out an alert that men had broken into 221B, with reports filtered through that Mrs. Hudson had been accosted by the men, witnessing Sherlock's return and then dealing with the aftermath of the police being called.

She had been joined by two younger members of the team who would be taking over her shift, and they happened to walk in moments before a man in a dark suit plummeted from the back window of the flat to land on a set of bins outside, and the man remarking, "See you next fall..."

This prompted a burst of laughter and she shushes them while trying to regain her composure, knowing this was one of the men who had accosted Mrs. Hudson and feeling not an ounce of sympathy for him.

As she rises from the chair, the woman gasps, "Look... Mr. Sherlock Holmes is dragging him back again... I don't like where this is going..."

Sure enough, as Sherlock and the injured man disappear through the back door, they count the time as being two minutes and forty-seven seconds later, when the man comes sailing out of the window once again, landing heavily and she turns to leave with a gentle but firm command, "Now do not make this a comedy cavalcade. Stay alert should anything else occur."

The two team members nod politely, both being quite new but enthusiastic as well, and just as she is heading out the door, she hears them both whisper that one of the lids on the recycling bin had been left open as Sherlock dragged the man back to meet another tumble.

She retired to her office and sits back with a sigh. It had been quite a long day. Eventful and profitable, just the way she liked it.  
  
Once her reports were written up, she goes back to the surveillance under the guise of reviewing the activity logs once the next shift had concluded. 

Making sure the door was shut firmly behind her, she calls up the footage from this morning, going straight to the time when Sherlock begins playing, and she listens with her chin resting on her palm, taking this time to savour the quiet moment.  
  
Unknown to her, a tear slowly creeps down her cheek, and it's only when it comes to the corner of her mouth and she tastes warm salt does she know that she is crying.  
  
She presses her fingers to her lips to smother any sound she might make, then swiftly dashes away the evidence of her emotion. She could imagine his scorn if he saw her tears.  
  
Perhaps one day, if she had the courage, and if ever she set foot in the door of 221B, she would ask him to play for her. If ever she would break her personal rule not to engage in personal relationships with those under surveillance.  
  
Maybe he could be an exception.  
  
For now, she would remain in the background as a silent observer, and keep a distance with the monitors serving as effective barriers between her judgment and her warring emotions.  
  
'But this moment', she thinks, touching the screen with her fingertips where the detective was framed in the window. 'This moment is mine.'


End file.
